


A Midnight Hour

by Sapphy, SapphyWatchesYouSleep (Sapphy)



Series: Unbalanced 'verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychopaths, Bonding, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/SapphyWatchesYouSleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’ve got to take a mask off sometimes,” he comments, “if only to remind yourself of why you wear it in the first place.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Patch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patch/gifts).



> So this was going to be a chapter of A Real Boy, but it got out of hand. So now it's a WIP all of its ownsies. I don't know how often it will be updated, as and when the muse takes me I suppose, but the plan if for it too eventually be a complete retelling of Teen Wolf so far, from the perspective of Stiles and Jackson's interactions.
> 
> This is being posted straight after writing, unbeta'd and unyank-picked. Let me know if you spot any big problems.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't you know that a midnight hour comes when everyone has to take off his mask? Do you think life always lets itself be trifled with? Do you think you can sneak off a little before midnight to escape this?” 
> 
> ― Søren Kierkegaard

Jackson is uncomfortably aware that he isn’t exactly real. Not that he thinks he’s a character in a story or any shit like that – that’s Lydia’s gig, not his – but he knows that the face he lets people see isn’t real. He’s not even sure why he does it, wears this hateful mask, except that he’s done it for so long now that he doesn’t know how to stop. He thinks it’s like when you take off a watch at the end of the summer, and the skin underneath is untouched, pale beside the tan of the rest of your arm, and unbearably tender to touch. Underneath his mask, he’s like that, raw and unformed and unbearably sensitive. He thinks taking off his mask, letting someone see the self underneath, would hurt. Sometimes just thinking of it makes him want to scream.

The first time _it_ happens is in his first year of high school. Jackson’s been wearing his mask for two years (adopted, his mind whispers, unwanted, unknown) and it’s hard sometimes. He thinks it’s like wearing old pads that haven’t got enough padding. They protect you from blows, but they rub the skin underneath raw at the same time.

He’s sitting on the benches beside the school swimming pool, staring at the water without seeing it, when he feels the unstable bench tilt slightly under the weight of another body.

“You need a hobby,” a voice says.

Jackson looks at him, sees the Stilinski kid staring at him, his gaze a little too intense to be comfortable.

“I play Lacrosse,” Jackson says, too tired to be antagonistic, “and I’m trying out for the swim team.”

Stilinski smiles, a superior, condescending smile, and Jackson wonders tiredly if that’s what he looks like all the time. No wonder people hate him. “Those are pretend-Jackson’s hobbies,” he says. “You need something just for you. One thing where you can be completely yourself.”

Jackson’s blood runs cold, and he wonders madly if he’s dreaming. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says stiffly.

Stiliski looks at him pityingly. “You’re pretty good,” Stilinski says, like someone reassuring an upset child, “But I’ve been doing this gig a lot longer than you have. I know how to see the joins in other people, because I see them in myself. And trust me, wearing the mask is easier if you let yourself take it off sometimes.”

Jackson doesn’t know what to say to that, but he doesn’t have to say anything, because a moment later Stilinski gets up and wonders away. Jackson watches his retreating back, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and wonders what’s under Stilinski’s mask.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a year before it happens again. Jackson’s out on the field, shooting goals by himself, trying to ignore the sick churning in his gut (‘it’s okay Jackson, we don’t mind if you don’t always get As’ but of course they don’t, because they don’t care, he’s a stranger to them, why would they care?) when Stilinski strolls onto the field, carrying his stick.

He catches the ball Jackson flings at him without apparent effort, and says, “Take it off.”

When Jackson just stares, he clarifies, “The mask. Take it off, or you’re going to break it, and then you’re basically fucked.”

“What are you…” Jackson splutters, and Stilinski smiles.

“There’s only me here,” Stiles says calmly, “And I won’t tell anyone.”

Jackson doesn’t say anything, can’t think of anything to say, because the idea of taking off his mask, of letting anyone see him, is so alien he can’t really wrap his mind around it.

“Look,” Stiles says, infuriatingly rational, “you have to take it off sometimes, if only to remind yourself of why you need to wear it. If you don’t it’ll break, and next thing you know you’ll be scrubbing blood out of your clothes. Again.”

Jackson remembers Stiles saying that it was good to have a hobby that was just for him, and wonders what the hell Stilinski’s is. He’s not sure he wants to know what’s under the kid’s mask anymore.

Stiliski throws him the ball, a true shot, and Jackson catches it easily. “Come on,” Stilinski says. “You and me, one on one. And concentrate on playing. Turn off that little bit of your brain that’s always monitoring how well you’re pretending. I won’t tell.”

It turns out be easier than he expected. Stiliski doesn’t speak, doesn’t taunt him or insult him the way another opponent might, just focusses on the game, and it’s shockingly easy to do the same, to turn off everything in his brain not dedicated to playing the game.

He discovers something he’d never realised before, while they play. He actually likes Lacrosse. He’d never thought about it before, had played because that was what his pretend self was expected to do, and had focussed all his attention on being the best. But when he lets go, when he concentrates on the game, instead of how people are reacting to him, he finds it’s actually fun.

“Why do you play Lacrosse,” he asks Stilinski, halfway through the game. “I mean, you’re not very good.”

The sentence sounds like something his mask-self would say, and he takes a moment to analyse it, too look for the aggression, and decides that no, he’s just nosey and apparently not very tactful.

Stilinski smiles at him. “I’m actually brilliant,” he says casually. “You’ve got to be good to be as deliberately bad as me.”

Jackson huffs annoyance. “Stop pretending then,” he says. “If I can take of the mask, so can you. Show me what you’ve got.”

Stiliski is, as he said, brilliant. They’re almost exactly evenly matched, Jackson faster and a little stronger, but Stiles has a killer instinct that Jackson lacks, and he feels genuinely accomplished when he scores a goal. He woops his triumph, looking to Stilinski for support, or praise. Stilinski’s face is blank, one corner of his mouth twitching in a horrible jokers mask parody of a smile, and for a moment Jackson panics, thinks Stilinski is angry with him, that’s he’s done something wrong, but then he realises. He’d told Stiliski to take of his mask, so he had. That realisation, that they’re both out here as themselves, makes him grin even wider.

Later, they go into the changing rooms together. When Jackson comes out of the shower, he finds Stilinski has programmed his name into Jackson’s phone (as ‘the Mask’, but Jackson doesn’t bother to change it).


	3. Chapter 3

The first time he ever calls Stilinski, it’s because he has no one else to turn too. Danny’s parents have freaked the hell out over him being gay, and Jackson feels stupid and useless because he has no idea what to say to make it better, and, mostly because that’s left him twitchy and upset, Jackson’s had an epic row with his parents, complete with yelling and door slamming and ‘don’t you walk away from me young man’ and ‘don’t think I’m letting you see your friends if that’s the way you’re going to talk to your mother’ and he can feel the cracks starting to form. He calls the only person he can think off.

“Yello,” Stiles answers, cheerful and a little distracted.

“I need to talk to Stilinski,” Jackson says, because he can’t help but think of them as two people, the Stiles that everyone gets to see and the Stilinski who’s always there when he needs him. “The elastic’s broken.”

There’s a moment of silence when Jacksons panics, thinks maybe he’ll only get Stiles, thinks maybe Stilinski won’t understand, will need him to explain properly, which he doesn’t think he’s able to do, but then he hears Stilinski (and it is Stilinski, not Stiles, he’d know that voice anywhere) say, “Oh.”

The tension drains out of his shoulders, because finally someone’s going to help, and he notices distantly that his hand is shaking on the phone.

“Dude, they don’t stay on with elastic,” Stilinski says, and if Jackson hadn’t seen the blankness behind his Stiles-mask, he’d think he sounded affectionate. “They’re moulded to our faces. So they stay on by themselves. If your mask won’t stay on, it’s because you’re making yourself the wrong shape. You’ve either got to, like, reset yourself, or reshape your mask.

“Now you know I don’t care about the details,” and he’s never been more relieved to hear someone say that they don’t care, “But I’m gonna need a rough outline of what happened if I’m going to help.”

“Danny’s upset,” Jackson says, and he doesn’t care that Stilinski will hear the tears in his voice. He knows he won’t be judged. “I don’t know how to fix it. And I had a row with my parents.”

“Oh,” Stilinski says, and he sounds pleased, “that’s an easy fix. You’re just too tired to hold the mask on.”

“So what do I do?” he sounds pathetic, like a lost child, but he doesn’t care.

“Relax,” Stilinski says. “Do whatever it is that makes you calm. I can’t tell you what that’ll be, ‘cos I’m pretty sure my method doesn’t work for anyone else. But you find what yours is, and you do it until you stop feeling like you’re going to fall apart, and then you sleep, and when you wake up, the mask will fit again.”

“Thank you,” Jackson says, and he’d never meant the words more in his life. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Stilinski says, and hangs up.

Jackson shoots goals until his arms ache and he can’t see for tears, then he collapses into bed. When he wakes up, he doesn’t even have to think about putting on his mask, just does it automatically. It fits perfectly.


	4. Chapter 4

“What do you do to relax?” Jackson asks one afternoon. Danny’s parents have taken him away on a family bonding trip, and Scott’s ill, so there’s no one to question the two of them talking. If anyone dares, Jackson’ll tell them he’s stealing Stiles’ homework.

Stilinski glances sideways at him, his eyes wary, but no colder than they usually are so Jackson figures the topic isn’t off-limits.

“I break things,” Stilinski says. “Sometimes people. I find it very cathartic.”

“Are you going to break me?” He’s not afraid of Stilinski, thinks sometimes that the kid is the closest thing to a friend he has, but he’s aware that he ought to be.

“Nah, you’re already pretty broken dude,” Stilinski replies, and the words sound like something Stiles would say, but the tone of voice is pure Stilinski. “Plus, you know who I am, so you could report me to my dad if I went for you with a baseball bat.”

“A baseball bat? Really?”

“Hey, if Zombie movies have taught me anything it’s that a baseball bat is the ultimate weapon. Plus it’s not like I can keep knives around the house without my dad noticing.”

The trick, he’s discovering, to bantering with Stilinski is to never let your shock show. They sit in companionable silence for a moment, before Jackson plucks up the courage to ask the thing that he’s been wondering ever since that panicked phone-call.

“Does it bother you, that I think of you as two people?”

Stilinski looks surprised. “Why should it?” he asks. “I am.”

“You ever think there’s something wrong with us? That we’ve got real-selves and mask-selves?”

Stilinski looks at him for a long time before he replies. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I think there’s something wrong with us. I think we’re broken. But if we’re coping, does that matter?”  
It does, to Jackson at least, and Stilinski must see that on his face.

“Dude, you’re broken, but not, like, seriously. I mean, you’re sensitive, and you think you’re worthless and because of that you expect people to reject you. So you hide, so that they never get that chance. That’s not balanced, but it’s not, like, serial-killer, no one will ever love you, levels of fucked up.” Stilinski tips back his head, looking up at the cloudless sky. “I think a lot of people are as fucked up as you, they just have different ways of hiding it, so we don’t see it, you know?”

Jackson does actually feel better about himself after that, because he regards Stilinski as being the master of fucked-up-ness, so if he says Jackson isn’t that bad, it’s probably true.

“You think we’ll ever let people see underneath the masks?” he asks. He isn’t sure if he wants to answer to be yes or no.

“I think you will,” Stiles say immediately. “I mean, you let me in. And I think you’re pretty close to letting Danny in. And that’s good, you know, ‘cos there’s not really anything that bad under yours, just someone a bit messed up.”

“What about yours?”

“I don’t know what I want anyone to see under mine. I’d actually quite like to never take it off at all. I like Stiles. I know you don’t, but I’ve put a lot of effort into him, and being him is… nice. Uncomplicated. I’d like to do it full time.”

Jackson thinks that sounds unbearably lonely. He hadn’t known, until that day on the Lacrosse field, but it really is important to take off the mask sometimes, to let a bit of yourself out.

“You’ve got to take a mask off sometimes,” he comments, “if only to remind yourself of why you wear it in the first place.”

Stilinski smiles a Stiles smile at him, one of the ones that makes Jackson want to punch him, and says, “I take mine off, just not around anyone who knows me. That’s the advantage of my particular relaxation method. No one I care about ever sees me.”

Jackson feels oddly hurt, because Stilinski lets him see him, and he knew Stilinski didn’t care about him, he did, but knowing a thing is different to hearing it being confirmed out loud.


	5. Chapter 5

“Danny’s decided we’re involved in some kind of secret love affair,” Jackson tells Stilinski, during one of their regular Lacrosse games.

“What happened to the you stealing my homework story?”

“That was never going to work on him. Anyway, I get better grades than you.”

“True. So am I going to get a ‘hurt him and I kill you speech’? ‘Cos I’ve kinda always wanted one of those.”

“I don’t think so. But I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe me when I told him there was nothing going on.”

Stilinski shrugs. “I feel like I should apologise, but since I’m not actually especially sorry, I won’t.”

Normally Jackson doesn’t deal well with brutal honesty, but with Stilinski it’s just a sign of how comfortable they are around one another, so he lets it go.

“It doesn’t bother you then?” he asks instead.

Stiles grins. “Dude, have you seen yourself? No, it doesn’t bother me. You’re totally improving my reputation. I’d advise against actually making a move though, if you were thinking about it. That way lies pain. And blood. And other stuff you wouldn’t enjoy and I would.”

Jackson wrinkles his nose. He’s not bothered by Danny thinking he might have a thing with Stilinski, he’s not homophobic, and he likes to think they’re close, but the idea of actually having sex with his damaged friend is disturbing to say the least.

“I never want to know anything about your sex life,” he warns Stilinski.

Stilinski grins. “Pretty sure I’m never going to have a sex life,” he responds. “And if I do, the only person I’ll be telling about it is the arresting officer.”

Jackson spends a lot of time wondering just how broken Stilinski actually is, and a lot more time avoiding finding out. He likes things the way they are, and he thinks knowing the truth might damage their relationship. Might finally convince him to be afraid of Stilinski, like he knows he ought to be.


	6. Chapter 6

“Lydia Martin,” Jackson says, climbing into the Jeep beside Stilinski. It’s spring break, and there’s no one around from school to judge him for going out to shoot some goals and eat gas-station burritos with Stilinski.

“What about her?” Stilinki asks, his voice muffled by the sucker in his mouth.

“I think next semester, I might ask her out.”

“You like her?”

“I guess. I mean, she’s the most popular girl in our year, and I’m the most popular guy…”

“You’re clearly destined for one another,” Stilinski says dryly. He pulls the sucker from his mouth with a pop. The red colouring has stained his lips, making them glisten like he’s wearing lip gloss.

“I just… I know Stiles likes her, but I didn’t know if you did too. So I wanted to give you the chance to say no.”

“Wow, Jacks, bros before hoes, really?”

Jackson shrugs, embarrassed. He’s not the nicest guy, even without his mask, but he’s not a complete dick either. If Stiles doesn’t want him to date Lydia, he won’t.

Stilinski laughs. “Yeah I like Lydia. Who wouldn’t? Gorgeous genius who can crush a man’s balls just with her stare? But it’s not like she’s mine. Or even like I’m ever going to make a move. She’s not interested in me at all, and I like her enough to stay far far away. If you think you’ve got a chance, you go for it.”

Jackson smiles at him. “Awesome dude, thanks.”

All the emotion (what little there was) drops from Stilinski’s face, leaving him blank-eyed and terrifying. “And if you hurt her, if you do anything to upset her, or lay a finger on her without her permission, I will break both your wrists, cut off your balls and fire bomb your car. Understand?”

Jackson nods. He knows Stilinski well enough to know that that’s not an idle threat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, actual plot now.

“You going to tell me what’s up with McCall?” Jackson asks, when Stiles’ ball lands neatly in the back of the net. “He’s been playing better than you recently.”

“Everyone plays better than me,” Stiles says, stopping to look at him in surprise. Jackson represses the urge to kick him. He hates it when Stilinski goes Stiles on him.

“I mean he’s playing better than you actually play, not better than how you pretend to play,” he says, neatly catching the ball Stilinski throws to him.

“Scott has no idea what’s going on,” Stilinski says, ducking out of the way of Jackson’s tackle. “He’s seriously freaking out.”

“I didn’t ask what Scott thinks is going on,” Jackson points out, because he knows Stilinski knows, however much he’s pretending not too.

Stilinski shakes his head at him. “You’re such a dick,” he says, but he sounds affectionate, or as affectionate as Stilinski ever sounds. “And I don’t know for sure. I mean, I’ve got a working hypothesis, but it’s pretty crazy.”

“How about you tell me, and I’ll tell you whether it’s likely or not?”

“Yeah, that’s what I need Jackson, a reality check from you.”

It takes two weeks of very discreet nagging (because he might not mind Danny knowing he and Stiles are friends, but he is in no way comfortable with anyone else knowing) before Stiles sits next to him on the bleachers and says, “I was right.”

“About?”

“Scott. He’s a werewolf.”

“You’ve finally cracked.”

“Jackson, darling, I cracked a long time before you met me. But that’s why I didn’t want to tell you my hypothesis. Because it sounds mental. But I have had confirmation, of the hairy growling trying to eat me variety, so I’m pretty sure I’m not delusional. Insane, yes, but not delusional.”

“You think it’s okay to wear orange plaid,” Jackson points out, mostly out of habit.

“I will never understand your obsession with clothes,” Stilinski tells him. “And also, werewolves. They’re apparently a thing now. I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

“Well if it Danny who turned into a monster and tried to eat me every full moon, I’d be pretty pissed off.”

“Oh that’s not a problem. A) Derek says he can learn to control it and B) this is Scott we’re talking about. I could take him with one hand tied behind my back. Dude has about as much killer instinct as a lamb, even when he’s all fang-y. No, my problem is more than he’s got super-senses now.”

Jackson thinks that through, tries to apply Stilinski logic to it. “Blood?” he suggests.

“Take a gold star and go to the top of the class.”

“Hey, knowing McCall, he won’t even notice.”

“Nah, he’s not as dumb as he looks. I’m hoping he’ll just feel too awkward to mention it.”

“You ever think about telling him the truth?”

Stilinski slants a look at him. “You ever think about telling Danny?”

“Fair enough.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I want to be a werewolf.”

Stilinski looks at him over the rim of his coffee cup. “It doesn’t look all that great to me,” he says.

That’s one of Jackson’s favourite things about Stilinski. He might disagree, but he never tells Jackson his ideas are wrong, or stupid, and he doesn’t expect Jackson to think or feel the same way he does. Jackson thinks it’s because he’s so out of step with the world around him – the idea that anyone should think the same way as him is completely alien to him.

“They’re stronger that humans, faster, have better senses and can heal almost any wound.”

“And people try to kill them all the time.”

But they get a pack, Jackson thinks. He’s not sure if he should say that out loud. Stilinski will understand, or at least accept, and not judge, but Stilinski is also Stiles, who he doesn’t trust an inch.

He barks harsh laughter. “I just caught myself wondering whether, if I told you something, you’d keep it from Stiles,” he admits when Stilinski looks questioningly at him.

Stilinski laughs. “Definitely cracked,” he says, his voice fond. “And you realise I’m not actually two people, right? I’ve got a lot of problems, but multiple personalities aren’t one of them. Stiles is still me, just… pretending.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jackson is aware that he sounds defensive.

He does know, there’s just a difference between knowing a thing and really believing it.

He jumps at the sudden warmth as Stilinski sets his hand over Jackson’s. “You can tell me anything,” he says, and he sounds sincere. His expression is blank, but Jackson learnt long ago that that’s no guide to how Stilinski feels. “You’re my friend, Jackson. You can trust me.”

“Dude,” Jackson says, because he’s not quite ready to address the complex tangle of emotion that Stilinski’s stirred up, “You’re holding my hand.”

Stilinski shrugs, but doesn’t let go. “It seemed like the right thing to do,” he says. “Plus, you look cute when you’re confused.”

“I always look cute,” Jackson says, but it’s just his mouth acting on auto-pilot, his brain is completely disengaged.

“True that,” Stilinski says with one of his joker’s mask smiles, and toasts him with his coffee cup.

It’s not the most awkward moment of Jackson’s life, but it’s up there. Top three, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're on tumblr, come be my friend at lentilswitheverything or find my multi-fandom fic recs as gluttonforpunsihment (yes I spelt my URL wrong)


End file.
